


Thin Skin

by Miss_M



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Flash Fic, Insecurity, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If love killed all demons, Brienne would have no need of Jaime’s words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thin Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Unspecified-future ficlet. I own nothing.

“Douse the fire.”

“No.”

“Douse the fire, Jaime. The night is warm enough.”

“No, I won’t. The night is about to get even warmer, not lighter.”

Brienne scowls, halfway out of her jerkin, considers pulling it back on and lacing it up. If Jaime wants to pick a fight, she can sleep in her clothes.

Jaime’s eyes on her are burning embers. Brienne wants to squirm, scowls harder instead. 

“Shy again, wench?” he teases slyly, hoarsely. “You were not so maidenly when you saved me from a watery death at Harrenhal. I distinctly remember how loud your heart beat under all that thin skin and thick muscle…”

Brienne blushes warmer than the dancing flames in the grate, turns away from Jaime. He may be in the mood to jape, but she will not deprive herself of a night in a comfortable bed, wearing as few clothes as possible, because of his mood. 

“Turn around.”

“No.” Brienne pulls off her shirt, makes quick work of her breeches. 

Jaime sounds softer, nearly kinder. “Brienne, turn around.”

That decides Brienne: she leaves her smallclothes on, scurries under the bedcovers. The old bedstead, abused by many a body in the past, groans under her. 

“No,” she tells the wall mulishly. “I mislike it when you look at me like that.”

Jaime’s laugh is a startled bird breaking into flight from the bracken. “Like what?”

Bedstead protesting, Brienne rolls over, brings her knees close to her chest, makes herself a tight ball under the covers as she faces Jaime. “Like that.”

He raises his eyebrows at her, backlit by the fire, his face warm shadow and red planes. A man made of golden light. 

“Like I am tired of having this argument every other night? Like I am not remembering all the times you were not so bashful, wench? Not to mention unclothed, wanton, and more than willing…”

Brienne pulls the covers over her head, closes her eyes in the warm, close dark. 

The floorboards creak, the mattress dips. He does not touch her. 

“I wish that bear had eaten Vargo Hoat and choked before you met it, wench. I wish Robert Baratheon’s bastard had joined your fight sooner at that inn. As I wish I had both hands, and not just for your sake. None of that makes you less in my eyes, Brienne. It pleases me to look at you.”

Brienne lowers the covers slowly as far as her nose. Jaime’s face is softened in firelight, his smile a thin sickle moon.

“You repay me thus? I show you my heart, and you would cheat and use your eyes on me, wench?”

Brienne closes her eyes, only for a moment. Sighing deeply, almost a sniffle, she pushes the covers down as far as her chest. Jaime’s hand is light, thick calluses against her ridged scars. 

Wriggling closer to the wall, Brienne lets Jaime under the covers, embraces him without trepidation. Her blood courses faster under his hand, thin to coarse, skin to skin.


End file.
